


Chantey

by sockpal



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Fix-It, M/M, Panic Attacks, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Time Travel, Underage but not really, took artistic liberties tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-01-31 19:14:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12688503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sockpal/pseuds/sockpal
Summary: Twenty-three year old Stiles Stilinski wakes up in 2004. As an eight-year old. Of course, he has to take advantage of the situation.





	1. Chapter 1

 

When Stiles blinks back into reality, it’s dark and he hears snoring. He wiggles his limbs--no sudden pain, squeaky joints, broken stitches, oddly enough--and pushes himself clumsily from the large bed. There’s no moon at all tonight, so the window is no help in finding the light switch.

 

It takes a while of fumbling around, blind, which doesn’t do any good. Eventually, he’s annoyed, sore, and noisy, and Stiles irately glowers at the ceiling as if it holds the answers he seeks; where’s the light switch?

 

A jolt of nervous energy bursts through him; the lights blink on. Ah, he’s at Scott’s.

 

Immediately, the small form of Scott appears, snoring away at the bottom of the bed. His limbs are thrown out, a Superman blanket tossed haphazardly over him. He has a gooey trail of drool climbing down his lip to pool on his shirt. Apparently, Stiles stole the bed.

 

At least one thing’s cleared up--he is _really_ not where he was last. Last he checked, Stiles Stilinski was watching his friends die. Shuddering, he draws his knees to his chest.

 

For a moment, he sits there, reveling in the serenity of the moment. It’s like the calm before the storm--which, when Stiles wracks his brain, he finds that it’s actually July _2004_ , and holy shit is this weird. He’s supposed to be twenty three. He’s supposed to be dead. Stiles is _not_ supposed to be an eight year old boy.  

 

His eyes dart around. There’s a sleeping bag on the ground, (the red one he’d lost shortly after his mom’s death). Crumbs litter the ground, and there’s Scott’s video game controllers lazily thrown on the floor. The TV’s on, a large PAUSED across the screen. He gets up, tiptoes over their collective mess, and turns the game off. 

 

Scott snuffles in his sleep, and briefly, Stiles stiffens. Everything’s fine. Nothing’s crazy yet. Everyone’s fine. He relaxes. With a small tilt of his head, the lights shut off. 

 

What has he gotten himself into this time? He can’t help thinking about it. Stiles is in the past. Somehow, when everything was over--his friends, his dad, _dead_ … Something happened to bring him back. Another chance. He could stop it all. He would. 

 

First he needed allies. Discerning his memories from this past-Stiles is a breeze--he’s like a separate file, with just enough information to go off of. And when he thought about it, the obvious choice for an ally would be the living Hale pack. Of course, he would have to prevent Kate Argent from getting her disgusting claws in Derek Hale, stop Gerard, and oh man, he really had a lot on his plate this time around.

 

Dropping onto his back, he pulls a pillow to his chest. His eyes close, and he drifts off into a dreamless sleep.

 

* * *

 

Scott wakes up around eight. This is a Scott missing a front tooth with naivety in spades.

 

He races Scott down the stairs at the smell of food, and for a moment, he feels like he’s eight again. But it’s not _right_. Even as he wins, skipping steps two at a time, Stiles is saddled with the knowledge of impending demise. And if anything, that makes it hard to revel in the sweetness of it.

 

Melissa is downstairs with his mom. There’s a plate of bacon on the table which instantly has Scott shooting by him to grab a piece. His fingers stop an inch away from the meat when he notes their stares. Then, grinning sheepishly, he grabs one; Claudia laughs, long and loud. 

 

Stiles stands nearby, at the foot of the stairs. Inside, there’s a frozen mix of desperation and sorrow and _happiness_ threatening to overwhelm him. He’s missed her _so_ much. His feet don’t move, but Stiles is fine with that. All he can do is stare, greedily drinking in her very much alive image.

 

Claudia blinks, smiling gently at him. Her eyebrows quirk. “Stiles, is something wrong?”

 

“Nah,” he says, then jumps off the top step for show. With easily feigned enthusiasm, he bounds over to the table, pulls himself onto a chair, and spears some bacon onto his fork. He beams at Melissa, “Thanks, Miss McCall!” (His hands tremble.)

 

As he nibbles on his bacon, Scott’s excitedly chattering to his mother about their plans to go to the park. All the while, Stiles continues to not-so subtly shoot charged glances at his mom. He’s still not used to it. Halfway through Scott’s happy rambling, she seems to catch on with her own odd looks, but Stiles hastily pawns off her suspicion by loudly interrupting, “Can we go now?”

 

“Clean up your dishes first.” says Melissa. She ruffles Scott’s hair, then moves to take Claudia’s empty cup. His mom passes it over with a smile and a thank you.

 

Overall, he has a headache. Because he’s an eight-year-old but also a twenty-three year old. Frankly, it's just weird. 

 

He finishes off his bacon strip, then passes Scott a grin; Stiles helps his mom clean up the table. 

 

* * *

 

Their mothers were apparently at a phase where they trusted them to go by themselves. So biking it is. At least he doesn’t have training wheels. It could've been worse.

 

Before they start their trek, Stiles pauses long enough that Scott glances over. He leans forwards on his bike, grinning.

 

“Hey, Scott? You wanna take a detour?”

 

“Detour?” asks Scott. He has a cute crease between his brows.

 

Stiles blinks. “It means ‘another way’. I learned it from my Dad.” 

 

“Cool!” Scott says, flashing a toothy grin. “Lead the way, dude!”

 

Alright, he’s got this. Stiles places his feet back onto the pedals, turns the handlebars to his Batman-themed bike, and kicks off. And let him just say, biking to the park is exhausting. The burn of exercise is a nuisance to Stiles’ already buzzing brain. Man, does he miss driving. He takes the longer way around, cycling by the library, a few houses, a cafe, and--oh. There’s Kate Argent through the cafe’s large glass windows.

 

He screeches to a halt.

 

Kate Argent is sitting in a booth a few meters away, cross-legged with a coffee in one manicured hand. She lifts it to her red lips, eyes coyly lifting to meet someone...else’s…….

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

That’s when Stiles notices Derek Hale. He’s pink-cheeked and shooting Kate shy glances from where he’s waiting for his drink. Stiles heaves out a breath. Guess he doesn't need to track Derek down this time around.

 

“I’m going in.” Stiles says, abruptly. Scott frowns, following his gaze to the cafe.

 

“But we don’t have money!” he insists. Stiles just waves a dismissive hand, leading the bike up to the entrance.

 

“Don’t worry about it, Scotty! Just watch my bike real fast!” he pushes himself off the bike and darts in, ignoring Scott’s protests. Then, he builds up just enough speed so when Stiles slams into Derek’s legs, he takes them out from under him. They land in a painful heap. Derek barely escapes a concussion from the marble counter, and Stiles knocks his jaw painfully against Derek’s knee. Agh, that’s a bitch.

 

And well, Stiles is impulsive. It’s part of the reason that now Derek’s soundly distracted and Kate’s meticulous eyes are on him, he really doesn’t know what to do. “Sorry, Mister!”

 

“Um,” Derek looks at Kate one last time. Then he sighs, defeated, “it’s fine.” From his peripheral, Stiles sees Kate stand up, obviously taking advantage of their scuffle because she’s _standingupandwalkingoverhereoh--_

 

Stiles hurriedly blinks twice. A small roach crawls out from beneath a tile. He hopes that Kate isn't fond of coffee-shop bugs.

 

“I just saw this really cool bug!” He stands up quickly, dusting himself off and marches over to pick it up. From the corner of his vision, Kate’s mouth curls in disgust, and she retakes her seat. She gives her cup a dirty glare. Stiles bites his lip to force down a smile.

 

His heart doesn’t stutter nervously _at all_ , nope siree. Mostly because that's the thing about being a trained Spark; masking his presence? Heartbeat? Magic? Easy-peasy!

 

Sometimes, being underestimated is pretty fucking _rad_.

 

“Did you come here for bugs too?” and Scott takes that as his cue to scurry in.

 

“Sorry! Stiles is kinda clumsy sometimes!” Scott was probably eavesdropping, the little sneak. Still, Stiles is thankful for it because Scott _believes_ this half-baked lie. In fact, the entire time his puppy-eyes are longingly fixated on the wiggling bug. Stiles fondly rolls his eyes. He presses it into Scott’s hand, who immediately grasps onto it eagerly.

 

“Derek? Order for Derek?” the barista calls.

 

Derek receives it with a nod and a gratuitous mumble. Stiles’ grin gets bigger. Is it bad to ruin relationships? Meet-cutes? Should he feel bad for the bounce in his step? Nah, Derek’ll be fine. He trails out after the werewolf with Scott, stopping right outside of the entrance. Stiles nods at Scott.

 

Then he places his hands on his hips. Even Derek’s lips quirk at the sight. “Alright, Scotty. Let’s go! The park awaits!”

 

* * *

 

Today, Stiles Stilinski prolonged Derek Hale’s chastity, grossed out Kate Argent, and played Power Rangers at the fucking park. He even managed to rope little Isaac Lahey in on the fun. Seriously, the kid was just walking by with his brother, wistfully watching Scott strike a ridiculous pose.

 

Stiles says, let there be fun! Even if he is a best friend stealer. But who could resist Isaac’s puppy eyes? (Scott and Isaac were definitely the puppy-pals of their trio.)

 

However, after a while of running around and _pretending_ to take out bad guys, it’s not enough. His head buzzes horribly with raw energy. He takes a few deep breaths. Okay, he can relax. Because if he takes it easy, maybe it won’t be as bad. Stiles slows to a stop.

 

“Guys!” he shouts, “I’m gonna take a bathroom break!”

 

Two “okays!” answer him, from Isaac and Scott respectively. Both of whom are hiding poorly behind a thin tree together. Seriously, bad spot. Stiles can see them from across the park. Rolling his eyes, he wanders off to sit on a bench.

 

He pats the pale wood. “Good ol’ bench.” It gave him memories of the old days, when he used to be stuck on the bench. Man, this time around? First line-up was _his_. He and Scott were going to do this whole shebang together.

 

Kicking his legs around gets boring after a while. As does staring dumbly at the sky. His head still pounds painfully, which now that he thinks about it, is probably an after-effect of having the Nemeton nearby. Especially one as… lively as this one. He might as well make the park a safe haven for his instincts. So after a moment, he gets up. Stiles isn’t too tired, surprisingly. 

 

Stiles wanders down the hiking trail, hands shoved into his pockets. The woods were more or less the same; creepy, with a buzz to the air. And not just with the sound of crickets and grasshoppers. Nope. With the tainted energy of the Nemeton. The closer he gets, he can practically taste the death that jump-started the sucker. And with every step, the presence of the Nogitsune, sealed away beneath the tree, _jumps_ at him. 

 

Gulping, he presses on. Finally, the massive trunk comes into view, and a raw energy slams into him. He gasps. The closer Stiles gets, the more a pressure builds on his chest. It’s awake because of something recent--a death. Paige’s, to be exact. 

 

Hesitantly, he places his fingers on the edge of the bark-- _oh._ That energy is downright _wrong_. Paige’s death hadn’t just jump-started it, her death had also _dirtied_ it. And now it was in the beginning phases of becoming a death-beacon, and _doing that parent-locator-spell hadn't been the best idea._

 

He lets go of the stump, deciding to march around the perimeter to put up quick security wards. Stiles isn’t too keen on being found out as a Spark or anything magical, thank you very much. Nor does he want somebody interrupting his impromptu purifying of the Nemeton. It would be pretty weird. Eight year olds were supposed to be playing ball, not purify-the-Nemeton.

 

After setting them up, he waits. Nothing. He waits a little longer. Zilch. His wards don’t sense anything, and after a moment of dallying (he even puts up a show pretending to be searching for bugs), Stiles decides to start.

 

The sooner this thing went back to sleep, the better.

 

He chants the purifying-incantation, clear and loud, as he shovels energy down the Nemeton. With every passing moment, a glowing orange line circles the trunk, much like the red stripes on a candy-cane. It twirls onto the flat surface, then moves in to stop at the center. Alright, he can feel the tree. Is this how hippies feel? Stiles shakes his head.

 

Closing his eyes, he can feel dark, dirty blotches in it’s branches of energy; something that places him on edge. And knowing the Nogitsune is behind one of those obscure spots has him tensing.

 

He can do this. He can _do_ _this_. Deep breath.

 

It’s like navigating a cleansing stream of energy. And hey, what do you know? It’s pretty easy. Sorta like those cleaner commercials, where they pour some cleaning solution down a dirty pipe and it goes away. Except with ten times more concentration and a way more brittle instrument. (So maybe not as easy as he’s making it out to be.)

 

By the time he makes it to near the Nogitsune’s branch, Stiles’ heart is hammering. He _knows_ it’s there. It’s the last one, the only splotch of black left. His Spark moves with his breath, slowly inching towards the jar he _knows_ it's in. The fly buzzes around, intensifying the closer he gets. He forces a blast of energy through it; and Stiles manages to _exorcise_ it. He can feel it, peaceful and confused, even as it fades away.

 

A breath drops out of him, one that he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding. Already, there’s a change in the atmosphere--the convoluted energy pouring off the Nemeton altering to a serene lull.

 

Tiredly, he gives the trunk a bro-fist. Then drops onto his ass. Stiles closes his eyes, resting them for a few seconds.

 

Job well done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is mostly self-indulgent stuff. I'll be updating in a bit cuz man am I a slut for Spark!Stiles. And Peter. Peter is really, really hot. I have a thing for manipulative, older assholes. 
> 
> If you have any tips or thoughts about the story so far, lemme know in the comments!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cleaning the tree had been fine and dandy, but falling asleep? Not one of his brighter ideas.

Cleaning the tree had been fine and dandy, but falling asleep? Not one of his brighter ideas. While he’d gotten a good hour in, Stiles still ends up roused by his wards (which ring like crazy), coupled in with a panicked Scott. And that wasn’t something he liked waking up to. Not that Scott wasn't a cute kid, but terror didn't look good on anyone. Luckily, Scott was easily appeased when he realized Stiles wasn’t dead, so the entire fiasco lasted for a few seconds at most.

 

When they circle back to the park, they find a fretful Isaac waiting by a stop sign. "Sorry," he exclaims. 

 

This earns a piqued brow from Scott, "Why?" 

 

“I have to go,” he says woefully. “My brother is waiting for me,” Isaac bites his lip, and a hopeful expression crosses his face, “Can we play together next time?” Stiles, touched, can only nod along to Scott’s affirmation, cause _wow_ , he was not expecting that. Then Isaac lopes away, visibly brightening. Maybe he wasn’t an evil best friend stealer after all.

 

It’s getting late, so Scott and Stiles head home. They pick up their discarded bikes, and Stiles figures they may as well walk; the weather for that afternoon just happened to be a mix between cool and warm, and he loved it. Scott agrees, so they lead their respective rides down the sidewalk.

 

As they walk, Scott tells him, “Dude, you’re still my favorite.” And Stiles grins in reply.

 

“You’re my favorite too.” he nudges Scott, “I mean, I let you be the red power ranger! That's surely proof enough.”

 

“The red power ranger _is_ awesome.” Scott concedes with a shrug and smile.

 

The sun is still setting, so the streets are fairly lit and it's pretty nice. Of course, a silence between Scott and Stiles typically did not last long, especially when Scott has a peculiar countenance to his features.

 

“Hey, Stiles?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

He rubs his neck, demeanor a little more unsure. “Are you… okay?”

 

“What brought this up?” Stiles asks. He wrestles to maintain a relaxed disposition, despite his hands tightening around the handlebars.

 

“You’ve been more quiet lately. Is… is something on your mind?” Placing hesitant, _sad_ eyes on him, Scott purses his lips. A lump sticks in his throat. Miserable Scott was not a Scott that Stiles particularly liked -- namely, because it was _Scott_. Stiles’ best friend, his brother from another mother...

 

At this age, they were no secrets between them, nothing to drive them apart. He lets out a shuddering sigh. He can fix this. If his memories served him correctly, eight-year old Stiles had recently professed his love for one Lydia Martin, and even more lately, confessed to cheating during Mario Kart (unpaused it while Scott was in the bathroom, passed him, then paused it again).

 

For a moment, Stiles considers telling him. Certainly Scott would be skeptical at first, but he’d warm up to the idea of a future Stiles. Heck, Stiles would probably have a partner in crime! There’d be no secrets between them, and... Scott would be probably be despondent if he _knew_ that his Stiles was gone. And never, ever coming back.

 

Stiles gulps, forcing himself to meet his friend's brown eyes, “It’s nothing, Scotty. Just wondering how I’ll catch Lydia’s attention.” at his incredulous frown, Stiles adds, “I was putting together a seven year plan. It’s not complete yet, but I’m getting there.”

 

That convinces him. Scott beams, “You’ll knock her socks off!”

 

The lump in his throat is stifling, but he starts to chatter half-heartedly about Lydia’s virtues anyways. And if Scott notices, he doesn’t say anything.

* * *

They get back to the McCall house around seven, and by then it's already time to go. Their mothers make them clean up Scott’s messy bedroom, then herd them out of the house to say their goodbyes. Nonetheless, Scott insists that if Stiles can’t sleep over, then _he_ should be able to sleep over, and Melissa can’t help but snort and place a stern, effective look on him.

 

“See you tomorrow,” he grumbles dejectedly. Stiles nods.

 

“Definitely, dude,” He claps Scott’s shoulder, then moves to stand by his mom. She places a guiding hand to the small of his neck, and Stiles has to remind himself that it's real. Then he climbs into the back seat, while Claudia straps his bike to the rear of the car. As she climbs back in, she shoots him a small smile, then turns the keys in the ignition. The ride home is short and quiet.

 

They finally pull up to the Stilinski house, where his dad is waiting on the front porch. His dad grins. Claudia reciprocates with a saucy wink. That raises a laugh out of him.

 

Stiles really wants to save her. Her death had been devastating, and if he could avoid having his father drink his woes away, if his mom see him graduate... He stares at his hands -- why… why does he have a Spark if he can’t even try and use it to save her?

 

Swallowing, he throws open the door. Stiles shouts that he’s going to take a shower, and his mother reminds him that if he wants a bubble bath, then he would have to wait for her to find the soap. He dismisses her by insisting he’d rather have a quick one. She blinks, but doesn’t deter him when he jogs to the house.

 

And _holy shit,_ a hot shower was just what the doctor ordered. He lathers his stomach and arms in pomegranate-scented soap, lingering when it comes to his formerly-scarred gut. The thing is, the lack of phantom pains and scars is a weird look for him. They were symbolic of his experiences, and if not for that fact, that they (at least) made him a little more badass.

 

Well, it's a new slate now. The nozzle continues to drips lazily after he shuts it off.

 

Tonight, he was going to do the impossible. Stiles would save his mother. He snorts to himself, wrapping his wet body with a fluffy towel. Then again, he was already doing some impossible stuff. He manages to dry his hair, tug on a fresh pair of pajamas, and walks downstairs.

 

Claudia is already in the kitchen, humming under her breath as she stirs a pot of soup. By the sink, there’s a few containers set out for his dad’s work. She gravitates towards them soon enough, plucking one up and filling it to the brim with soupy-goodness.

 

“Can I have some?” Stiles asks, already pulling a bowl from the dishrack. He casts her a boyish grin. Claudia rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling while she fills his dish. Careful not to spill, he comfortably sinks into a seat at the table, then shovels a spoon into his mouth. _Ouch, ouch_ \-- _eugh_ , that _burns_.

 

Totally worth it.

 

He’s halfway through his bowl when Claudia takes a seat across from him.

 

“Mieczyslaw,” she says gently, and Stiles stills. Is it weird how much he misses his name? “Are you okay?” He lifts a brow, and she answers his wordless query, “You’ve been weird today.”

 

He shrugs, “You know me: quiet, with rugged good looks,” feigning a smile doesn't work; his mother clearly sees through his antics since she frowns. Lying to her is horrible -- especially, since he ( _he!_ ) was given another chance. To make things right. And Stiles _really_ wants to make this time count, “I-I just,” _shitshitshit, this is his_ mom _, for crying out loud._

 

A tightness suddenly strains itself in his throat, and the room abruptly blurs at the edges. He can’t focus on any one thing, and Stiles _knows_ what's going on but all he can think is _oh god he hasn’t had one of these in years--_

 

“--slaw, _Mieczyslaw_ , deep breaths. One... “ an exhale, “Two,” exhale, “Three,” his mother’s voice, “Four,” he forces himself to follow along, “Five,” and slowly, Claudia reappears. She hasn’t moved from her spot, preferring to observe him with worried eyes. Probably because of his tendency to attack anyone who touched him. He heaves out a dry laugh.

 

After a long moment, she reaches past the forgotten bowl and covers his hand with hers. “Are you alright?”

 

Stiles forces a smiles. “Yeah. I… I had a nightmare last night,” voice fading into a mumble, he looks down, “You were dead. Y...you were gone, and…” he trails off.

 

“Oh, baby,” she croons, “I am right here. I’m not going anywhere if I can help it.”

 

Biting his lip, he nods. Claudia leans across the table to press a soft kiss to his forehead. Stiles scurries around the table to wrap his arms around her.

 

* * *

The rest of the night goes normally; they watch _Lilo and Stitch_ , his dad makes popcorn, his mom complains about the smell, and Stiles throws popcorn at the screen, occasionally offering commentary. Overall, it's a great night.

 

Post-movie, Stiles stumbles upstairs in faux exhaustion. And at eleven o’clock, the Stilinski household is asleep. The sooner he heals her, the better. Once her… _condition,_ made itself at home, the damage might be irreparable. So tonight it is. 

 

But, healing magic? Not a big fan. Sure, he could do it, but it was pretty taxing. Plus, it felt gross -- like someone forced him to chew on a pill. 

 

When he creeps into the master bedroom, Stiles finds Claudia curled against his dad’s chest, her back facing the door. He hovers for an instant, then lays a small hand to her back. She doesn’t shift, but his dad does. Stiles has brief heart attack before he registers that his dad is just kicking his leg out from under the blanket. A loud snore sputters out of him, and he relaxes. He can work with this. 

 

He closes his eyes, minutely siphoning away bits and pieces of energy through where they’ve connected. It’s a delicate process, because unlike the Nemeton, humans weren’t magical trees. He has to be diligent and allow her time to adjust, lest it be for naught. And there -- Stiles can _feel_ her. An sea of emotion crashes into him -- it's nearly too much for him. But he focuses on the need to save her, grounds himself to that thought. If he doesn’t, Stiles could get booted out without accomplishing a thing.

 

It takes a few moments, but then he sees an ill-defined glob of sorts, hidden away just beneath the surface of Claudia’s consciousness. He reaches out, and there it is: a sense of confusion, anger, destruction -- all in the form of a misshapen ball, no bigger than a fingernail. He wants to laugh, albeit hysterically. This, _this!_ This was what had killed her.

 

Dementia is a complex, slippery thing, even in his metaphysical hands. He witnesses it starting to unravel, if not to inflict more damage, but Stiles won't allow it. Instead, he wraps a hand around it and squeezes. He only lets go when he’s sure it's gone. She’s safe.

 

At the end of it all, he can only keep his eyes open for a few seconds before they shut again. Thoroughly exhausted, he passes out.

* * *

He wakes up in his own bed. Which is kinda weird, considering Stiles remembers collapsing on the floor. Figuring one of his parents moved him, Stiles shrugs it off. He heads to the bathroom to get ready for the day. Then he eats breakfast, takes a dosage of Adderall, and grins the entire time Claudia vigorously proclaims, “Get ready, husband o' mine; it's date night!”

 

Noah pulls her in for a sweeping kiss in response, and she stumbles out of the room, red-faced and speechless. 

 

“So,” he says with a content smile, “Are you playing with Scott today?”

 

Actually, Stiles is going warding today. The Hale House is his top priority, considering it’s the future site of gruesome murders, but he needs a cover story, “Not today. I’m going to see if I can hang out with Lydia,” he lies. And considering the stint with his mom, Stiles is somewhat shocked at how easily the bluff rolls off his tongue. Still, they know it’s Stiles’ first crush, so they let him be. 

 

After breakfast, Stiles snatches a spiral notebook and black pen from his room, and wastes no time in getting on his Batman bike. Then he speeds off in the direction of the Hale House. Honestly, the journey is sort of difficult, especially with a notebook under his arm the entire time. 

 

If he plays his cards right, he could get on and off the property without any suspicion. All he really needs is the steady-heartbeat-charm, so he flexes his thumb, and the scent-concealer one drops.

 

Next up, human, er -- werewolf interaction.

 

He gets off his bike, drops it against the dirt, and rings the doorbell. The door abruptly swings open, and there is... Peter Hale. There’s no mistaking it, even with the absence of burns and stubble. Stiles might even miss the stubble, now that he thinks about it.

 

 _Nope, nope, nope,_ not _going down that path._

 

“Good day, Mister Hale!” Stiles declares with a grin, “Think I could interview your family? It’s for a summer project I’m making.” He brandishes the spiral.

 

Peter inclines his head, examining him as if he's the most intriguing thing he's seen in a while. It gives Stiles the creeps. Fortunately, he steps to the side, “Of course,” he all but purrs, “Stiles, right? My family won’t mind in the _slightest_.”

 

Stiles swears he hears a growl from somewhere in the house. He gulps. “Alright, thanks!” then, just for the kick of it, “Which one are you again?”

 

“Peter,” said-man replies, clearly amused. Stiles doesn’t get what Peter’s game is, but he’s definitely not having it this time around, no siree. Save the Hales, return to a normal life -- that’s as involved as he’s going get.

 

“Uncle Peter, who’s the kid?” and Stiles has to blink a few times because the newcomer is Laura Hale in the flesh, and certainly not in rotting halves either.

 

“Sheriff Stilinski’s boy,” Peter drawls. Come to think of it, did he know who Stiles was _before_ they met in the prior timeline? Stiles hopes he doesn't look as alarmed as he is. That's all he wants. He's a simple man. 

 

“Oh!” pipes Laura, “Stiles, right? I know your dad!” Thankfully, it is just small-town fame.

 

“Quite well, actually,” remarks her uncle with a sly smirk. Laura throws him a dirty look, and Peter holds his hands up in mock-surrender.

 

“Well, I’m here to interview you guys for a newspaper I’m making,” he clicks the pen so the nib pokes out, “Whoever’s okay with it, really. I don’t wanna bother you guys.” then to finish it off, he tacks on a sweet smile.

 

It sells; Laura’s eyes glitter, and she pats his head, “As long as you share your paper with us, then I’m sure no one will mind,” she grins, “Come on, let’s go to the dining room, and you can ask me some questions. Maybe Uncle Peter will join.”

 

Stiles turns dread-filled eyes to Peter, who dips his head in agreement. Alright, he thinks, play the clueless eight-year old. Not the creeped-out twenty-three-year old familiar with Peter-shenanigans.

 

“Okay,” he says, and Laura laughs. She leads him to the dining room where a long mahogany table sits, surrounded by matching chairs. Laura pulls one out, gesturing for Stiles to sit down. He does, and she takes an adjacent seat; Peter mimics her example, if only to sandwich Stiles between them.

 

She smiles, “What’s your first question?”

 

“Where do you go to school?”

 

“New York University,” she comfortably replies, “I’m just here for the summer.”

 

For a little while, the Q&A session continues. Things begin to die down when Stiles runs low on questions, but to be fair, they’re mostly things off the top of his head, like, “Why did you come back instead of stay there for the summer?” or “Favorite TV show?”.

 

Now it’s time for the next step, Stiles’ personal favorite: the bathroom phase. So when Laura asks, “Next question?” Stiles blurts he has to go to “the potty”, and an uncomfortable silence immediately floods the room. His ears redden. Laura blinks dumbly, and Peter’s lips twitch.

 

“Down the hall, first room on the right,” says Peter, as if Stiles hadn’t just embarrassed himself. Great. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goshhh, I really love writing Peter. 
> 
> And honestly, thank you guys so much for the feedback! I really love reading all your comments!
> 
> (deep voice) In the next chapter, Peter lurks (as usual) and Stiles fends off homoerotic feelings. Stay tuned...
> 
> Lemme know if you have any tips or have anything to add!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suddenly, he feels nauseous. This hadn't happened before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the long wait!!! I've had some issues with the DMV and stuff, and it's been a huge mess. Hopefully it doesn't show too much in my writing. I hope it's okay! I'll go back and try to edit more of it later, but for not, here's the third chapter! 
> 
> (I'm definitely going to finish this, so even if I don't update in a while, believe in me haha;;;)

The bathroom was where Peter said it would be, so Stiles slips in, applies a charm to muffle his presence, and takes a deep breath. It’s showtime. He opens the bathroom door and sneaks down the hallway, opposite of where he’d come from. No one stops him. Stiles would be lying if he said sneaking around the halls of the Hale House wasn’t at least _kinda_ exhilarating. It was like a James Bond movie -- or a Spy Kids movie.

 

He sees a window at the end of the hall, so Stiles busies himself with implementing a fire-ward. His heart races as his fingers draw the invisible runes, and he mouths the incantation with apprehension. Oddly enough, the instant he calls upon his Spark, the edge of his vision blurs and his hands begin to quiver and prickle all over. But apparently that’s not the worst of it. A sudden, painful searing ignites along his wrist, crawling to the tips of his fingers, and all he can think is how unfortunate the timing is. It causes him to stop his half-hearted attempt on the spell. He groans.

 

Stiles barely avoids crumpling to his knees by tightly clenching at the sill. He wants to cry. _Shit, shit_ \-- magic was a no-go, and a _possible end for him_. Great. When his eyes flicker to his fingers, he can practically hear the crackle of magic emitting off of them. This made a great time to get _heck_ out of here _._

 

And to make things worse, there's a breath against the shell of his ear, and Peter whispers, “Did you get lost?”

 

Stiles violently jerks away from the sill, and he instantly regrets it. Everything spins in a torrid motion and the start of a horrid migraine decides to make it’s appearance. He stumbles and closes his eyes, exhaling shakily. Then opens them. And to make matters worse, his fingers spontaneously twitch, and the ornate lamp that’s perched innocently on a the edge of the table bursts into flames. Fuck.

 

“…yeah,” he says, awkwardly.

 

Peter hums contemplatively in reply. He watches as Stiles’ legs wobble, folds his arms over his front, and doesn’t say a thing about the demolished lamp. Stiles is actually _kind_ of grateful. It gives him the much needed time to get a better handle on himself. He steadies himself, then aims a weak smile at the werewolf. Peter takes that as his cue to place a guiding (creepy) hand to the back of Stiles’ neck, and urge him forward.

 

“I’ll take you back to Laura. She’s beside herself with worry,” there’s a droll note to Peter’s words, but Stiles focuses on walking. “Maybe even a little angry, especially when she finds out her favorite lamp has been destroyed.”

 

He bites out, “I didn’t do that.”

 

Peter’s eyebrows are probably lifted, because he leans in and mumbles, quiet enough that no nosy werewolf could hear, but loud enough that Stiles up on it, “Just like how you didn’t mask your scent?”

 

Ice floods his veins, and he drops his charm. In the same instance, Stiles feels like he can breathe again. it’s weird. And if anything, his action was a bigger mistake; it doesn’t help his “I’m an innocent eight-year-old” image at all, even as he turns his head to spare a _very_ feigned look of innocence. Peter’s nostrils flare briefly, likely inhaling _eau de_ _Stiles_. There was no doubt in Stiles’ mind that he knew something was up; Peter’s lips curl into a smirk.

 

“What are you talking about?” if his voice cracks a bit, Stiles blames a premature onset of puberty.

 

“What are you?” Peter retorts instead in that same murmur, and Stiles frowns.

 

“Eight,” he stubbornly counters, though he certainly knows better. But it’s worth it to see the werewolf scowl.

 

Laura is where he’d left her, primly seated with a textbook flipped open. When he enters, she shuts it and lifts her head, if only to smile at him. Guilt and crippling fear squeezes his stomach, but Stiles simply returns her smile with one of his own.

 

She asks, “Ready?” and he _really_ isn’t, but he nods anyways. He shoots a slightly contemplative glance at Peter, mostly confused. Why hasn’t he ratted on him yet? It doesn’t fit Peter’s creepy agenda. Peter smiles at him. He looks away.

 

Then Stiles grins at Laura, reaching out to pick up his pen. He clicks it. “How many siblings do you have?”

* * *

Talia Hale is swamped. Ever since the Nemeton was allegedly tampered with, Beacon Hills’ emissary circle had been hard at work. All they’d surmised was that the tree had been cleansed of negative energy, which meant something powerful was prowling around Beacon Hills. She pinched the bridge of her nose. A coven? Druids?

 

“Peter, this better be important,” she growls. Propped up against the doorway, the pack Enforcer merely offers a lazy smile.

 

“When have I ever wasted your time, dear sister?” Peter drawls, “Besides, I only need a book.” He hums as he heads towards the bookshelf in the corner of the room, and Talia gives up any hope of focusing on her work.

 

“What’s going through your head, Peter?” she tiredly demands. Peter ignores her in favor of sifting through her collection of tomes.

 

Instead, he replies, “Children are _fascinating_.”  

 

She frowns. “You hate children.”

 

“Do I?”

 

“When Laura was born, you said -- and I quote: ‘I hate children’.” Talia reiterates. She caps her pen, swiveling her chair to observe him.

 

“That was years ago,” Peter dismisses with a wave of a hand. He peruses her selection of tomes, idly commenting in a manner that Talia doesn’t buy, “I’ve redefined myself, sister.”

 

As long as Peter is, er… _respectful_ around children, then Talia will let it slide. “Right.” Hopefully, no charges of any sort spring out of nowhere. Especially with the workload she has right now.

* * *

At the end of his Q&A, Stiles is exhausted. He’s ready to drop-dead, and maybe not move for a week. Laura tries to get him to stay for dinner, but Stiles isn’t in the mood to explain to his dad why he’s having dinner at the Hales and not the Martins, so he declines. Also, Peter’s wandered off, and there’s no telling if his magical-capabilities are public knowledge yet, and Stiles really, really needs to head home and formulate an excuse of how he knows about scent charms. Or werewolves for that matter.

 

So he waves Laura goodbye, heads out the door, and bikes home. He can’t stop thinking about how his magic short-circuited. What went wrong? Stiles flicks a glance to his hands, wrapped averagely around the handlebars. There was nothing now, no sudden burst of uncontrollable magic, and when he reached out to touch his Spark, it felt relatively quiet. Maybe it reacted to him _using_ magic?

 

He drops the heartbeat charm, and oh-- that felt better. Not using magic was strangely gratifying; a sense of queasiness fluttered about his stomach. Alright, so his Spark was acting weird. Who would know about this?

 

Deaton _could_ , but Stiles didn’t want to risk it. When it came to information about Sparks, the Deaton of his future had known as much as the next guy. Which wasn’t much, past the “immensely powerful straddling the universe’s flow” part. He cringes, rounding the street corner to his house. It’s around six in the afternoon, so the roads are still bright, and soon enough, the street lights are flickering on.

 

His parents are none the wiser when it comes to his Hale-related escapades, and Stiles tells them some half-baked lie of “getting too nervous to approach the Martin household”.

 

“I’m sure if she knew you, I know she’d love you,” Claudia coos, squishing his face between her hands, then presses a wet kiss to his forehead. That gets a chuckle out of him -- the Lydia Martin he knew may have been a good friend, but Stiles had long since accepted that he would never be a Jackson Whittemore, “I mean it!” His mother scolds.

 

“You’re a catch,” his dad tells him with a kindly pat.

 

And Stiles sleeps fitfully that night. He goes to bed in fluffy blue pajama pants and a red flannel shirt, and after waking from a particularly bad nightmare -- _ohgodohgodstopSTOPIT_ \-- Stiles thinks that maybe he _is_ a catch. Afterall, no eight year old (or twenty-three year old for that matter) just so happened to be the inadvertent cause of the McCall Pack’s death. He rolls over and pulls up the sheets.

* * *

It’s the following Friday -- a week since “The Hale Incident”, as he’s dubbed it. In the meantime, Stiles hangs out with Scott, entertains his parents, and visits every library in town in order to delve into Spark lore. Most of the magic books, unfortunately, are Harry Potter ones; the ones he actually do find to be useful are ones that have the textbook definition of Spark, and that isn’t too helpful. At least he’s doing _something_. The Hale fire wouldn’t happen until next summer, his mom’s descent into insanity was prevented, and he wasn’t planning on losing anyone yet.

 

Stiles sighs. His adventures were a mix of adrenaline and excitement and fear, this was the part that was _boooorinng._ Pages and pages of musty text, and while he loves anything to do with the supernatural, it kind of loses it’s _spark_ after reading for hours and hours on end. Well, he could always hang out with Scott (who is currently rediscovering dinosaur books with Isaac; frankly, he did not expect that their shenanigans would have him grateful and not jealous), but he _really_ has to finish this chapter. Which he has no idea is about again.

 

He drops his head onto the table with a pathetic thump, and not even two seconds later, he hears Peter Hale’s honeyed voice croon, “Stiles, what a surprise to see you here!”

 

Stiles responds by tepidly glaring into the table. Should’ve expected Lady Luck to abandon him so quickly. But _really_ , in a period where he can’t efficiently use his magic? This _sucks_. He swallows, forces his features into a (weak) grin, and meets frosty eyes.

 

“Mister Hale!” Peter’s standing a good distance away, fingers curled around a teal spine. He’s wearing one of those stupid v-necks, and Stiles is meant to be _eight_ , so it _should_ be easy to pull his eyes away from Peter’s expanse of neck. _Remember future Peter? This is him, the same creepy asshole who killed his niece, but younger_. Except Stiles knows he isn’t, this Peter is (dare he say it) innocent; someone who wasn’t trapped in his head for years, fueled by revenge in stead of abandonment.

 

Current-Peter drops into the chair across from him, “How are you today?”

 

“Good? You?”

 

“Good,” affirms Peter. He tosses the book cover open, skims the page, and flips it. It seems the conversation is done, but from the way the werewolf’s lips curl, Stiles knows it’s far from over.

 

“Why are you at the library?” Stiles asks, if only to take control of the conversation. Peter doesn’t notice the array of supernatural books, and Stiles takes this as an opportunity to subtly shuffle them behind a lamp.

 

“Reading. The same as you,” he curtly says. Douche.

 

“Cool,” mumbles Stiles. He busies himself with mindlessly sliding a novel in front of him. His attention is elsewhere, considering the _Devil’s Incarnate was sitting right in front of him_.

 

Peter mumbles, “So, a witch?”

 

“W…” Wait -- Stiles blinks rapidly, “What?”

 

“Your book,” Peter says, with a little too much mirth. Oh. _Ohhh_ . He was talking about the book he recently got: _The Witches_ by _Ronald Dahl_.

 

“Oh,” Stiles articulately replies. He blinks, long and awkward, then smiles, “Yeah. Good book.”

 

“It is.” then returns to flipping through his book. Stiles is 90% certain that the asshole knows exactly what he’s doing. Shortly after, Stiles goes home, and things seem to return to normal.

 

Except, it really doesn’t, because he swears that he's beginning to see Peter _everywhere_ , and he can’t use magic or anything, so mumbling a greeting and rushing by is all he can do. He’s not dumb; Peter’s up to something, and he’s likely suspicious, considering their first run-in. But he can’t make the first move. Stiles has too much at stake. A future.

 

So, he tries to remedy the situation by staying home. If he bides his time just right, Peter would eventually tire, and Stiles would be home-free to wreak havoc once more. At first, he tries to waste his free time by casually casting small (albeit helpful) charms -- motion charms, conjuring beetles, flowers, that sort of thing. He quickly finds that he can’t. Mostly by the tell-tale, icy jolt of pain that ripples through his core. It’s paralleled by an equally frosty panic -- Stiles is a magical creature. Why is it this hard!? 

 

“Hey, Mom?” his mother, from where she’s spraying bleach around the metal premises of the sink, glances up. This was going to be one hell of a conversation. He lets out a breath.

 

“Yes?”

 

“What if... you were a criminal, and you were...  _shot_ , with a poison bullet... so you couldn’t go to the hospital?”

 

She doesn’t appear the slightest bit concerned at his fretful analogy, too used to Stiles’ typical ramblings. “I’d go to my family. They’d always help, even if I committed murder,” she says, eyes twinkling. That’s not the answer he’s looking for. If anything, the last time he confessed supernatural shenanigans, his dad was kidnapped, and everything went further into crap. But then again… his eyes catch onto Claudia’s twinkling ones.

 

No. Not now. Not when he is just gaining some semblance of normalcy back.

 

“What if you didn’t have a family? What if you were a lone wolf?” he can’t help the small twitch of his lips at that. Lone wolf. Hah. Derek would have a field day.

 

“Does this lone wolf have any friends?” Claudia asks. She squats, disappearing from his sight to grab a wet wipe from beneath the sink, “Anything?”

 

“Friends who are babies,” says Stiles, “and would be in danger from the biggest wolf if they knew.”

 

An odd gleam settles into her eyes, keen and sharp. It’s an expression that he knows too well -- curiosity -- because it’s the same expression Stiles finds _himself_ wearing when he becomes far too stubborn for his own good.

 

“What’s this about?” it’s not a question, judging by her tone of voice; a demand that he’s more than reluctant to yield to. Still, not even a beat after she speaks, he replies, “I was watching a cartoon, and I was wondering what I would do in that situation.”

 

At that, she softens. Placing the dirty wipe on the counter, she smiles. “Well, _you_ would have a family and many friends to help you if it came to that.”

 

Not the right answer either. But he’s pressed her enough. Claudia’s acute senses were another thing Stiles would have to keep an eye out for; at least for the time being.

 

The list keeps growing, and now, he has a headache. Great.

 

Actually… he has an idea: Scott. He’s young in this timeline, but an avid animal lover all the same. He’s a frequent visitor to the local vet, mostly in the company of either Stiles, or his mother, but nonetheless, it’s the only plan he has. Stiles is going to break into the vet’s office. Legally. During open hours, on a probable tour that he will bother Deaton for.

 

Okay, so not _really_ break in, but it’s the same idea with the Hale House, now that he thinks about it. Stiles shakes the thought off. Developing the plan would have to wait until later, as he _really, really_ wanted to nap right now.  

* * *

When he wakes up, his clock reads 5PM. The sheets are sweaty and sticky from the excess heat permeating his body, and Stiles throws his blankets off with a shower in mind. It’s a heaven-sent experience, leaving him fresh. Practically a new person, all together! In the midst of a family dinner and a rare night of board games, Stiles can forget that the supernatural world exists. He’s a normal human again, one with a family and no worries or Spark-issues to deal with.

 

“Uno!” he yells, and his mother gasps. Her eyes narrow as she plucks up two cards.

 

“Mieczyslaw!” she swears. Stiles laughs. The Stilinski family’s game nights were of _legend_. He hadn't experienced one of these since his mother died. Stiles missed this.

 

But the magic breaks almost as soon as it starts. His dad’s phone buzzes, and his face sets into a grim line that Stiles has mostly seen when something horrible happens. Noah murmurs about the incident to his wife, and Stiles manages to pick up bits and pieces -- just enough to figure out _there's a body in the woods._

 

Then, in a louder voice, obviously meant for Stiles' ears this time, he tells them to stay put, (he raises a brow at Stiles specifically -- he had a reputation, even as a child). Noah promises he would be back soon, and Claudia sends Stiles to bed. 

 

Because the first-known body-in-the-woods incident occurred when Peter went cuckoo and on a killing rampage, Stiles is concerned. He grimaces at the thought, eliciting a reassuring smile from his mother. She pats his head, affirms that there was nothing to worry about, and pads out of the room with a blatant fretfulness to her features. 

 

Suddenly, he feels nauseous. This hadn't happened before. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me!! I love reading everyone's comments and feedback, and even if I don't get around to answering everything, I really do appreciate it all!! 
> 
> Headed for more plot, and more Peter of course!! 
> 
> As usual, lemme know if you have anything you wanna add!!


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